


Reunited

by Melodious329



Series: The Thief and the Whore [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Hurt Aramis | René d'Herblay, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:46:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25653085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melodious329/pseuds/Melodious329
Summary: Porthos has been waiting two weeks for Aramis to return from a training exercise in Savoy.  Unfortunately, their reunion doesn't go as planned.
Relationships: Aramis | René d'Herblay/Porthos du Vallon
Series: The Thief and the Whore [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1859869
Comments: 5
Kudos: 36





	Reunited

**Author's Note:**

> This is completely medically inaccurate. Also, geographically inaccurate because Savoy is too far away from Paris, lol

Porthos is working in the stables with another recruit. It’s hard work but mindless so he lets his mind wander. Of course, there’s only one thing on his mind: Aramis. They’ve been apart almost two weeks after only one night together. Porthos is still trying to reconcile it in his mind, finding Rene again, finding Rene so changed. And yet Aramis is exactly the same. The boy was always strong, fearless, opinionated; and Aramis is still sweet, protective, and even coy. 

“Help!” Porthos hears a yell from an unfamiliar voice and the sound of hoofbeats. “Is this the Musketeers?!”

Porthos runs out to the courtyard along with most of the other recruits. He sees a single horse with two riders, the one in front wearing a blue Musketeer’s cloak with a bandage around his head. His breath catches in his throat as he recognizes long curls in disarray underneath the bandage.

Treville reaches the rider first, but Porthos crowds behind him. He helps the Captain pull the injured man down. 

“What’s happened?” Captain Treville shouts up at the stranger. Porthos doesn’t care as he pulls the lax form from his superior and cradles it to his chest. 

“Attacked,” Aramis moans. “Musketeers...snow,” he mumbles semi-coherently. 

“Take him to the infirmary,” Captain Treville orders, but Porthos is already moving. 

Aramis moans pathetically as his head is jostled with Porthos’ movement. There’s nothing to do but hurry, and he rushes into the sickroom to lay the other man on a bed there. As soon as Aramis released, though, he’s trying to get back up. 

“Noo,” he moans, struggling against Porthos’ restraining hands. “We have to go back. You have to help them…”

The Captain strides through the door then and is at the other side of Aramis’ bed in an instant. With hand to the side of the stricken man’s face, Treville garners the man’s attention. “I’m going to go back for them,” Treville says authoritatively. “But you must stay in bed.”

Only then, under the orders of his Captain, does Aramis subside. His body is still tense as he lays there, but no longer is he trying to get up as he waits for further instruction. Porthos too looks to Treville for explanation. But the Captain only says, “I’m taking some men to Savoy to investigate. Stay here with him. Athos will manage the Garrison.”

Porthos raises his eyebrows at the idea that the newest recruit is being left in charge, but there are no forthcoming explanations. He can only assume that the Captain doesn't want to say anything in front of Aramis and he looks back down at the injured man in concern. Aramis himself is in no shape to give him an explanation. And then the Captain is gone. 

That leaves him alone, with no answers and no way to soothe the man who is looking at him with wild eyes, lying against the pillows with that dirty bandage around his head. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Porthos takes the man’s long-fingered hands in an attempt to comfort. 

A moment later, Athos is standing in the doorway, clearly assessing the situation. Porthos stares back. The other man has been a mystery to him. Clearly, he is talented with the sword and an experienced commander, presumably noble born. But the man is also trying to drown himself in wine which doesn’t make for the most trustworthy of comrades. But if Treville trusts him, then Porthos must also. 

“The doctor is on his way,” Athos says. 

Porthos nods though he wonders what the doctor will be able to do. As soldiers, they’re all aware of the unpredictable nature of head injuries. 

Reaching for the bandage, Porthos says, “Let’s take this off so the doctor can see.”

As he unwinds the bandage, he can see that the hair has been roughly shorn on half of Aramis’ head. Privately, he laments the loss of those beautiful curls that Aramis took such pride in. But he sees the necessity, a curved row of stitches in the man’s scalp. 

As he takes his hands away, Aramis reaches up to grab his wrist. “Cesar?” he asks, his voice desperate. 

It’s one of the Musketeers who went on the training exercise but has not returned. Porthos can only shake his head as he tries to dislodge, Aramis clutching fingers, “No, it’s Porthos.”

Aramis’ bright eyes seem to dim in realization, but then the doctor is arriving, interrupting them. 

“Lemay,” Athos greets him. 

The dark haired doctor nods in greeting but moves immediately to the patient’s side. “I’m not sure if there’s anything I can do,” he says regretfully. “I see that he’s already had stitches.”

“Doctor,” Aramis acknowledges the man. “I’m fine. I don’t need…”

“He’s been confused,” Athos says, still haunting the doorway. 

“Hmm, I’m not surprised,” Lemay hums even while Aramis is glaring at them for ignoring him. But then Lemay looks down at this patient and speaks directly to him, “I’m going to have to press on the wound.”

“Of course,” Aramis says with gritted teeth, turning his head so that the injury can be more easily reached. 

As soon as fingers touch the area though, Aramis is hissing through gritted teeth, his whole body becoming rigid with pain. Porthos is about to push the man off by the time it ends. Lemay steps away then, but Porthos doesn’t even look up to hear the diagnosis. He’s more concerned with soothing Aramis who has turned onto his side to pant through the pain. 

Still, he hears the doctor’s words rain down on him like a storm. “The bone is not moving beneath my fingers. He clearly has headaches which could continue for days or...for months.”

“But he will recover?” Porthos searches for reassurance. They have all seen a man who got up after some blow to the head only to die the next day. 

The doctor looks confused for a moment and looks at Athos as if to confirm. “The errand boy said that it had already been days since the injury. He should live, but make sure that he drinks plenty of water and broth. He may struggle to keep it down. And keep the wound cleaner than it is now.”

Porthos looks up in surprise, wondering again what exactly has happened. Where are the other Musketeers? Who cared for Aramis after his injury? How was he injured?

But he doesn’t want to upset Aramis more by asking, not with how much pain the man is in. Instead, he just gently rubs Aramis’ back as the doctor gathers his supplies and Athos brings hot water. When the doctor is ready, Porthos tightly grips Aramis’ hands, trying to hold the man still as the injury is cleaned. Aramis can’t hold back his pained cry or his instinct to get away. Fortunately, it is a small wound and over quickly. It leaves Aramis destroyed though, panting and moaning and shivering, curled tightly into a ball as if warding off further attack. It’s such a small thing to be so dangerous. He allows Aramis to crush his hands in his grip, unable to comfort him further. 

The doctor comes back near the bed and places a steaming cup on the bedside table. “This may help with the pain and I’ve left more for you to brew,” the doctor says, gently. Lemay hesitates and then offers a further piece of advice, “It might be better to just cut all of his hair in order to keep the wound clean.”

Porthos can’t respond. Those beautiful curls are one of the last things that are still the same from their childhood. Will Aramis really have to lose them as well? 

Eventually, Aramis calms enough that Porthos can weasel his hands out and pick up the cup. Tilting Aramis’ head even a fraction makes the man cry harder so Porthos does his best, slopping the liquid into the open mouth quickly. Most of it ends up on the mattress, of course. Porthos doesn’t notice when the doctor leaves, when Athos leaves. He lays his hands on his suffering friend until the man falls asleep. 

With a sigh, he then stands up and looks around. He only now realizes how cold it is in and so he takes care of the fire first. Then he sets to stripping off Aramis’ boots and then his breeches. In his sleep, Aramis shivers at being exposed to the air and Porthos pulls a blanket up over the curled form. He takes a seat again in the chair facing the bed, too afraid of hurting the injured man to risk getting in the bed with him. Porthos has longed to hold Aramis close for two weeks and instead this is as close as he can get. He feels utterly useless. He thinks about those wounds that he felt on the lean man’s chest and back and wonders over them again. He wonders if Aramis had anyone to look over him then, when he was shot at Ile de Re; how did he manage to survive?

Porthos spends a long night in the bedside chair, managing only a bit of sleep. When dawn breaks, he goes ahead and gets up, checking the fire first as the room has become chilled again in the night. When he looks back at this charge though, Aramis is awake and moving to sit up. 

“Water,” the man asks as he leans back against the headboard. “Please, can I have a cup?”

Porthos rushes over with a filled cup like his feet have been set on fire. He holds the cup near Aramis’ face, eager to help. But Aramis smiles gently at him over the rim, “My arms still work,” he murmurs, taking the cup. 

He drains the contents in seconds and gestures for more. After a second cup, Aramis is trying to slide out of bed. Porthos watches with nervousness but he’s already been chastised once. “Is there an extra shirt?” Aramis asks, moving carefully but fluidly over to the washbasin. Gingerly, Aramis pulls off his long fine shirt and begins to wash his face. 

Porthos manages to stop staring at the long lines of his lover’s body and goes to grab one of the spare scratchy shirts kept in the infirmary. He brings it over and sets it aside, moving to also help the other man bathe. He grabs an extra rag, sluicing water over the muscles of Aramis’ back. When he’s finished, he glances up to see Aramis fiddling with his shorn locks. 

“It’ll grow,” Porthos starts, but Aramis interrupts him. 

“I want to cut the rest.” 

Silence follows the statement. Porthos hesitates, weighing his reply to the abrupt decision. “Perhaps you should…”

Aramis whirls around to face him. “Get a knife or I will find one myself.”

Porthos remembers this assertiveness in the tiny boy named Rene so he moves to the long table to get a short knife. Aramis has turned around and is holding onto the washstand with both hands. Carefully, Porthos pulls on the first curl and shears off everything but a few inches. Aramis says nothing as the curls spring back towards his head, one by one as Porthos moves methodically until his hair is more of a fluffy halo. 

Only when he’s finished does Porthos look up to see that Aramis has gone white with strain, sweat flowing from his temples. He has no time to comment, though. Aramis suddenly lurches away from the washtable with a strained breath. 

“It’s too hot in here. The miasma in here is suffocating,” he announces, petulantly. Immediately, his hands are on the window shutters, throwing them open to let in the bright morning sun. 

Just as quickly, Aramis is flinching away from the light. He swings back toward the washbasin, emptying his stomach of the meager two cups of water. There’s nothing that Porthos can do other than support the other man as he tries to stumble back. Pulling the lean sweaty body against him, they stumble back over to the bed and away from the beam of sunlight. 

“Come, come on, lay back,” Porthos coaxes him as the injured man is being contrary, fighting as if to prove his strength. 

Once Aramis is back on the bed, Porthos gets another cup of water, trying to get Aramis to at least sip a little. The man still never actually put on a shirt, but he’s sweating so Porthos isn’t sure if it’s necessary. Probably literally anyone would be a better caretaker than him, but he is trying. He brushes back the other man’s tousled bangs from the sweaty forehead as Aramis closes his eyes, curling on his side again with a pinched expression. He rubs his thumbs over the wrinkles in that forehead, trying to be slow and soothing and not intrusive. 

But the pain doesn’t seem to ease as Aramis gives a little moan and fruitlessly shifts for a comfortable position. Porthos thinks of the herbs the doctor left that he hasn’t had time to make yet. He could make the drink now though he doesn’t really want to leave Aramis alone. 

In the end, he doesn’t get the chance. He moves his hand to brush his knuckles over Aramis’ sharp cheek, down over his grown out stubble and is surprised when the movement causes dark eyes to open again. More surprising is how Aramis moves into the caress and then sits up again. 

Aramis smiles at him and bites his lip before drawing a slow hand down his chest. “You can touch more than my cheek,” Aramis offers. 

Porthos is confused for a moment until Aramis continues. “Monsieur can touch whatever he desires.”

Physically recoiling, Porthos sits back in his chair. Now he recognizes that blank mask of expression on Aramis’ face; he recognizes it from Rene’s face. Calling him ‘monsieur’ verifies his suspicion that Aramis is confused again, now lost in a different time and place and not seeing that it is Porthos in front of him. 

His hesitation, however, prompts Aramis to change his approach. Dark eyes widen with seeming understanding and then the lean man is moving to sit astride Porthos’ lap. 

“I see,” Aramis purrs. “You would like me to ask for it, to beg you…” 

Aramis is leaning down to place his lips on Porthos throat when he’s stopped by hands on his shoulders. “Aramis,” Porthos says, hoping that the name will jog his memory. “Aramis, it’s Porthos. Come, you’re sick. You need to lie down.”

He stands up, pulling the other man with him and pushes Aramis back onto the bed. Dark eyes look up with a painfully confused expression, but he acquiesces to Porthos’ hands. It makes Porthos’ blood boil, but he works to wipe the emotion off his face. He hates the idea of Aramis, of the boy Rene, begging some customer in the brothel, hates how Aramis submits to strange hands on his bare skin. Strangely, Aramis seems to easily fall into sleep once he’s lying down again. It’s almost as if the man was simply sleepwalking, playing out memories that surfaced in dreams. 

As he looks over Aramis’ beautiful body now laid out on his back, he feels ashamed of himself, as well. For two weeks, he has been anticipating a much different reunion. For twelve years, he thought of that kiss with Rene, daydreamed of taking it further. He wished and waited and dreamed of lying with the man in front of him. But now he realizes that he would give up ever touching the man again if Aramis would just recover. 

He looks up when the door opens to see Athos followed by another recruit carrying a tray. Porthos remembers his name, Gustave, though they have rarely spoken. The man stares openly at Aramis on the bed as he enters the room. Only when Athos sharply barks his name does the man drop his eyes and hurry to set the tray down on the table. When he leaves, he closes the door behind him. 

Athos looks up at him with his usual serious expression. “I will sit with him a moment while you collect anything else that you need.”

Porthos nods and looks at what’s on the tray, food and drink, but no hot water for steeping the herbs Lemay left. He grabs the dirty washbasin and heads out the door, but something makes him hesitate just outside. A glance backwards shows Athos standing over Aramis’ on the bed, which makes his hackles rise in defense, until Athos speaks. 

“It seems I am forever at your sickbed, Aramis,” Athos says, quietly. 

Porthos turns these words over in his mind as he goes to clean the basin and collect a kettle of water from the kitchen. Going back to the sickroom, he stokes the fire and hangs the kettle over it. Grabbing the bowl of stew from the tray, he turns back to the bed to see Athos sitting in his chair, looking like he has no intention of moving immediately. Confused, Porthos pulls up another chair on the bed’s other side. Now it feels too much like a vigil, but he methodically eats his food. 

“How did you meet?” Porthos can’t help but ask. 

“He was kind to me when he didn’t have to be,” Athos answers obliquely. 

But it does make sense to Porthos. “That sounds like him,” he says, incapable of keeping a small smile off his face. In the months that he has been in the Musketeer garrison, he has seen Aramis run around the recruits like he corralled the children of the brothel, giving friendship, support, and advice to each. One of the many things that should have clued him in. 

He doesn’t ask for more of Athos’ secrets, for it is clear the man has many. Athos has the luxury of secrets that Porthos is denied because of his skin. In the scant weeks that Porthos has known the man, Athos steered clear of the other recruits, his remarks short and somewhat cold when he does deign to speak to them. Of course, Aramis would already have made a friend of such an insouciant man. 

Finished eating, he places the bowl aside just as Aramis begins to stir sleepily. He doesn’t seem to be in pain as he rolls on his side toward Porthos and opens his eyes. Sweetly, Aramis smiles up at him. 

“Porthos,” he breathes out and then reaches out a hand to grip into Porthos’ breeches, just inside his knee. 

Porthos stills as the hand is very intimately placed and Athos is just across the bed. But he isn’t quick enough to stop this as Aramis continues, “Porthos, lie down with me. I”m cold,” Aramis finishes with a pouty face. 

“He’s confused,” Porthos states, rushing the words out as Athos stands up. 

“Do what you can to help him,” Athos says in his usual tone of voice. “I haven’t seen anything.”

Porthos frowns and looks down at Aramis while he hears Athos leaving the room. Unsure what else to do, Porthos toes off his boots and climbs into the bed. “Rene,” he says, for that is who he is talking to now, a memory from years back when they first knew each other. 

Aramis snuggles in close to him, still shirtless, and reaches up his free hand to touch gently over Porthos’ face. “You have no new bruises this day,” he says in that breathy sleepy voice. 

Porthos swallows thickly and attempts a small smile for the young boy that he used to know. “No, but you do,” he says, sweeping a gentle thumb from Aramis’ hairline by the wound down his temple to a sharp cheekbone made sharper by hunger. 

Aramis grabs his hand and brings it to his lips for a childish kiss. “Do not fret,” he says. “Mother needed my help, but the brothel owner arrived soon after with his guard.”

The incident is far in the past, but Porthos feels the blow keenly in the present. He can’t change what has happened, no matter how much he wishes to. He remembers how Rene reacted to his one attempt, that surprised pleasure that Porthos even cared to protect him. The memory burns at his chest and he pulls Aramis closer, holding the man tightly. Aramis is a caretaker, a protector, and yet Porthos has failed so many times at protecting him. 

Aramis sighs and relaxes against him, falling into sleep again. Porthos wonders what will happen the next time the man wakes, and how long this will go on. Surely, he will recover. He can’t stay caught in the past, forever. Course, now there is another wrinkle. Porthos does not know Athos well, and he can’t guess at what the man will do after what he has seen earlier. Will Athos tell? Even if Athos doesn’t tell the Captain, a rumor spreading through the ranks will be just as deadly. 

Eventually, the sleepless night catches up to him and Porthos falls to slumber as well. When he wakes, he’s alone in bed and he jerks upright in an instant. But Aramis has not left, he’s standing by the window open now to the shadowed afternoon sun. The man is wearing a shirt now as well as his smalls. 

Aramis smiles over at him. “I wanted to let you sleep,” he says. 

Porthos nods, parsing the words to decide if Aramis is in the present or not. He watches as Aramis grabs his breeches and sits down to pull them on. “Whoa,” he chastises the man. “Where are you going?”

“I have to find Marsac,” Aramis says, avoiding Porthos’ gaze. “He’s out there alone.”

Porthos frowns. “I don’t understand,” he says. “What happened out there?”

Aramis stills his fingers in their task, thankfully, but he’s still not looking up at Porthos. “He’s alive and I have to find him,” Aramis says, standing suddenly but abandoning his breeches to fall back around his ankles. 

“If he’s alive,” Porthos reasons, gripping Aramis’ elbows to keep the man still. “Then the others are dead?” he queries. 

Aramis looks at him then with insistent eyes as if confused that Porthos doesn’t know. “All dead, twenty Musketeers, I…”

“Who?” Porthos asks, forgetting to be gentle. “Who could do that…?”

“I don’t know!” Aramis yells. “It was in the night. Most were dead before they could even find their weapons! I fought, but a musket…”

He raises a hand to his head and Porthos’ eyes widen as he realizes that the wound is the path of a musket ball. Aramis had almost been shot in the head. 

“Marsac,” Aramis continues in a more pathetic voice. “He pulled me to safety. I don’t know, things were hazy. He walked away in the snowfall,” Aramis is looking at him like he is begging Porthos to understand. 

But understand what? Porthos’ eyebrows draw down as he says, “He left you to die there?”

“Don’t!” Aramis hisses, pushing away from him, but the injured man’s feet are tangled in his breeches. 

Porthos grabs him again before he can fall, trying to keep further thoughts on the subject inside his mouth. He pushes Aramis back into the chair. “You can’t go. Captain Treville has gone and ordered us to stay here.”

The fight seems to have left Aramis for the moment. He ducks his face but can no longer hide behind the long curtain of his hair. Porthos can see his forlorn expression as he reaches to his neck, fingering his crucifix. Neither of them grew up going to services, Porthos knows, so he wonders when Aramis began taking such comfort from faith. 

“Treville will take care of them?” Aramis asks him even as he seems to offhandedly finger his necklace. “They will all have Christian burials.”

“Of course,” Porthos replies, though he isn’t sure that the question isn’t rhetorical. He feels dumbfounded, unable to take care of the pain that Aramis feels for the deaths of his comrades, his friends. All he can do is take care of Aramis’ physical needs as he realizes that the man has had no food and little water. 

He stands to bring Aramis the cup of water. “Drink this,” he says. “I’ll get us some food. You’re too skinny.”

Aramis doesn’t smile at the oft-repeated joke between them. But he takes the cup and lifts it to his lips. Porthos has to be satisfied with that. Before he leaves, Porthos takes the kettle from the fireplace and sets some herbs to steep. The kettle has boiled almost all of the water away so he brings it to the kitchen with the tray. 

He’s waiting for Serge to fix a couple of bowls, when Athos walks into the communal kitchen. Porthos might have thought that the man would avoid him after what he saw earlier, but Athos comes over immediately. Porthos himself has a few things that he would like to say. 

“They’re dead,” Porthos states plainly. “All of the other Musketeers, you know they’re dead.”

“Yes,” Athos tells him calmly. “The man who brought Aramis here told Treville that twenty dead men were found in the woods. Aramis was the only survivor that was found. He was wandering amongst their corpses, disoriented, and fought against leaving them there.”

“Only twenty dead men,” Porthos hisses. 

“Yes,” Athos acknowledges with that infuriating rational tone. “Twenty dead men and one survivor. Marsac’s pauldron and Musketeer cloak were found in the woods. We don’t know if he knew Aramis still lived.”

“He did!” Porthos almost shouts. “Aramis says that Marsac dragged him to safety. And yet the man just left him there after being shot in the head.”

Athos goes still, which Porthos supposes is a sign of the man digesting the information. “He will face the consequences of desertion if he is found,” the older man says diplomatically. 

Porthos huffs. While he wants to strangle Marsac himself, that won’t solve what happened to Aramis. Porthos has been concerned with the man physically recovering, but how can he recover from seeing his closest friends and comrades slaughtered while they slept? Aramis was abandoned by a trusted friend, left there to die of his wounds or freeze or starve. He was left to pick up the pieces by himself, see to their dead comrades, and carry the story back to the ones left behind. He shakes his head and loads up his tray.

Reentering the room, Aramis is mumbling prayers. Acknowledging Porthos’ arrival, he kisses the crucifix and replaces it around his neck before he stands to help. He seems to have discarded the idea of wearing breeches as he approaches in his smalls with his long shirt hanging down to his knees. Porthos smirks at the picture the man makes, reminded again of the younger version of this man. Closer, he can see the lines of discomfort etched into the other man’s face as he hands over the steeped herbs first. 

“The doctor left these for you to drink,” Porthos explains, hoping that Aramis will be persuaded by the doctor’s recommendation. 

Aramis smiles gently at him, and tries to scoop out the herbs. “Thank you,” he says, anyway. Still he drinks it with a grimace. 

Porthos pulls their chairs up to the table so they can sit side by side for their meal. He pushes the lean man into a chair and then places the bowl in front of him. Sitting himself, he’s starving and eats several big spoonfuls. 

“You don’t think it’s odd that the Captain would leave Athos in charge of the Garrison? He’s only a recruit?” Porthos asks, casually. He thinks he can come upon the mystery from the other side. 

Aramis looks up from his own bowl with a smirk. “Athos is very skilled and experienced. I have no doubt that he will earn his commission in short order,” he says diplomatically. 

Porthos remembers the first words that Aramis spoke to him in the Garrison, similar words of support. He should have known that Aramis wouldn’t divulge the other man’s secrets. Still, Porthos can’t help but ask, “He said that you were kind to him once. When did you meet?”

“Years ago,” Aramis says. “Though not as long ago as I met Porthos du Vallon, destined to give up the crown of the Court of Miracles.”

With a snort, Porthos gives up trying to learn the man’s secrets. He scrapes the bowl of the last of his stew and looks across to see Aramis also place his bowl back on the table. But Aramis’ bowl is still full of chunks of meat and vegetable. 

“My stomach is still unsettled,” Aramis says with surprising candor, in order to deflect Porthos’ question. 

Porthos wants to complain but doesn’t. He knows that vomiting must be exceptionally painful in Aramis’ state. Looking forlornly at the table, the bowl is pushed into his line of sight. “Finish it,” Aramis orders. 

“Do you always get your way?” Porthos asks in jest. 

“With you, I do,” Aramis says with a slight laugh. 

Unfortunately, Aramis’ good humor dies almost immediately, black thoughts like a cloud over his face as he looks back at the woodgrain of the table. And Porthos can think of absolutely nothing to say that could possibly lift the burden that Aramis carries. Porthos himself barely even knew those men, much less that he can’t comprehend the manner in which they died. 

“Come. Let’s us to bed,” Porthos says, tired despite his earlier nap. “Can I sleep with you?”

Aramis’ affection shows in his dark eyes as he reaches for Porthos’ hand. “Of course.”

Together, they go through their nightly ablutions, an intimacy that they have not shared before. It feels like a pale shadow of the dreams that Porthos nursed while Aramis was gone. And yet, it still feels good, to be here for Aramis, finally. And he won’t let this tear them apart again. 

They climb into the small bed, barely large enough for one full grown man in Porthos’ opinion. Perhaps this is enough to convince Aramis that Porthos is not just another man looking for a warm hole for his dick. Perhaps this will help quiet that thought in Porthos’ own mind, that he has somehow failed Rene by falling for him. They curl up with Porthos’ larger body around Aramis’ injured one, one arm draped over and pulling them together. It’s surprisingly easy to fall asleep, because this is what he has wanted for years, what he hopes he will have for years to come. He can only be thankful that Aramis is alive, no matter how many other Musketeers died. 

Unfortunately, the peace doesn’t last. He comes awake to soft agonized sounds and the restless movements of his bedmate. Given their sleeping positions, Porthos first thinks that it must be nightmares of the brothel, but then Aramis speaks. 

“Cesar, get up,” Aramis pleads to his imaginary comrade, kicking his legs a little in agitation. “Phillippe, no...no, I…”

Porthos sits up a bit, looking over the other man’s shoulders to see Aramis’ pinched face, his hand gripping the outer edge of the mattress in a fierce grip. It appears as if he would pull his comrades back from the grip of death by force. Porthos thinks of Aramis there in the snow, abandoned and wounded, begging his dead brothers to live once more. 

“Aramis,” Porthos whispers, trying not to startle the man awake. “Wake up. Aramis, it’s over.”

He lays a gentle hand on Aramis’ shoulder and the man opens his eyes with a sharply indrawn breath. But other than that Aramis doesn’t move, continues staring straight ahead at the wall of the infirmary, still gripping the bed. Porthos gently rubs the muscle under his hand, feeling inadequate. “Aramis…”

Aramis takes a big breath and then rolls over suddenly. He curls into Porthos’ larger chest, hiding his face, hands now clutching instead the open edges of Porthos’s shirt. Letting out the breath he was holding, Porthos cups one hand around the back of that tousled head as he settles back down on the pillow, resting his cheek on the other man’s temple. He doesn't know if the other man actually sleeps at all or simply lies still.

It’s still dark and quiet when Porthos feels Aramis move again. His hands begin by dipping inside the neck of Porthos’ shirt, moving with soft caresses towards a dark nipple. Then Aramis tips his face up to press kisses underneath Porthos’ jaw. At first, the large man hesitates, wondering if Aramis is asleep or simply caught in another waking memory, but when clever fingers pinch his nipple, he grabs the hand to stop it. 

“Rene,” he whispers. 

“Aramis,” the younger man corrects him, looking up at him with wounded eyes. 

“Aramis,” Porthos breathes the name as a sigh of relief. Then he gathers the other man to his chest. “We can’t,” he says, brushing those now wild curls off of Aramis’ forehead. 

Aramis is an open book to Porthos, his expression clearly showing suspicion and defensiveness at being rejected. Porthos worries at the motivations behind this and doesn’t want to say the wrong thing that would make Aramis more determined or upset. Aramis’ lean form is stiff in Porthos’ arms as he quickly thinks. “Not in the Garrison,” Porthos says, trying for teasing. 

Finally Aramis relaxes. “You think you would be the first Musketeer who had a quick tryst in the Garrison?” he teases back.

Porthos snorts in response, relaxing himself. They both know their situation is more fraught than being caught with a young woman behind the stables. 

“Porthos,” Aramis breathes, sounding overwhelmed. Aramis hesitates then and presses his face against Porthos’ chest again. “I don’t want to lose you. Ever.”

There are no words to comfort the man after such a loss so Porthos can only squeeze the man tighter and press a kiss into that mop of hair. They are soldiers with no guarantee of another day for any of them. The fact that they have both survived, that they overcame their circumstances to be where they are now is a miracle. And Porthos knows that Aramis’ loyalty is a fearsome thing and he should be honored to be gifted it. The king is lucky to have such a soldier committed to his safety. 

Too soon the light is crawling across the floor towards their bed. And, though Porthos wants to continue just holding Aramis close, he is afraid of being found in such a state. Athos knowing is bad enough. Before he manages to force himself to move, though, Aramis is sliding out of his arms and turning over. Porthos watches as Aramis sets his feet on the floor, hanging his head in his hands. It’s impossible to tell if the pain is emotional or physical. 

“Are you hungry today?” Porthos asks as he sits up against the headboard. “I’ll get us some porridge…”

“I’ll come,” Aramis interrupts sharply, standing just as abruptly. He seems to anticipate Porthos’ objection as he moves toward the breeches discarded yesterday. “I don’t need to be in a sickbed. I’m fine.”

Porthos doesn’t know what to say. Yesterday, Aramis couldn’t even recognize Porthos. Who knows if his mind will slip again and when? But that’s not an objection that he wants to voice to his friend, his lover. He doesn’t want to even think it, much less say it. 

Still, he can’t exactly condone it either so he simply watches as Aramis bends over to pick up the discarded breeches. Even that movement seems to pain the injured man as he stumbles sideways a step and his face crumples. But it’s only a moment until Aramis’ infamous determination reasserts itself and Aramis sits to carefully pull the fabric up each leg and then pulls the suspenders over his shoulders. So far, so good. But Aramis gets stuck again trying to fasten the buttons on the breeches. 

Looking down seems to aggravate his head and Aramis has to take a break, his eyes squinting in pain when he lifts his head. But when he tries again the fine control of his fingers continues to escape him. Porthos watches as Aramis gets more and more frustrated before eventually standing back up, accidentally pushing the chair over in his haste. 

“Forget the buttons!” Aramis yells. He stomps over to the table where his coat is laying, squinting his eyes in pain. 

Unfortunately, he misjudges the distance and rams his hip into the side of the bed as he passes. Crying out in pain, he then falls forward into the table, causing the table to screech against the floor as it shakes, scattering bowls and pottery to shatter. Porthos is rushing over as Aramis’ yell of pain becomes a louder cry of irritation and he flings out his arm to sweep the remaining kettle which makes a loud clang as it hits the floor. 

Aramis has his hands on the table, propping himself upright as he hangs his head again and breathes heavily when Porthos wraps an arm around the man in comfort. The men outside must have heard such a commotion and think that Aramis is possessed, but he can relate to Aramis’ frustration with any physical limitation. However, Aramis’ pain isn’t just physical and Porthos isn’t sure what to do. 

“I have to get out of this room,” Aramis says in a low voice. “I can’t be trapped in here…”

Porthos nods, acquiescing. “Let me help you.”

Aramis stands quietly, still using the table for balance as Porthos moves to help tuck in the shirt and button Aramis’ breeches. He kneels to shove Aramis’ feet in his boots and then gently helps the man into his coat. 

“Let’s get some food. See if Serge is in a bad mood or a worse mood,” Porthos says, trying to lighten the mood by bringing up their chronically bad-tempered cook. 

Aramis gives him a tiny nod as he begins to walk towards the door. Porthos knows better than to help the man where others can see. As soon as they’re outside though, every man in the courtyard stops what he’s doing to look at them. No one speaks to them as they take the short walk over to the kitchen. 

By the time they reach one of the tables in the small inner communal room, Aramis practically collapses into a seat. In daylight, Porthos can see how terrible the other man looks. The injury is red and raw, the bruising extending colorfully into his temple. Moreover, the man is pale and gaunt. Porthos looks at him and can only hope that he is able to eat something, no matter how small. The man is seemingly wasting away. 

He’s about to get up and go find Serge when the man limps over to their table. The older man looks directly at Aramis with a considering expression. Then he puts down two bowls. Immediately, Porthos can see that Aramis’ bowl is different, but he’s distracted when Serge speaks, a rarity. 

“I knew those men for years,” Serge says. “As I have known you.” He finishes with a nod at the bowl in front of Aramis. “Perhaps that will tempt you into eating something.”

Porthos watches as for the first time Aramis’ eyes become liquid and spill over, two tears coursing down each cheek. And yet, Aramis manages a grateful smile before the man walks away. 

In public, there’s nothing that Porthos can do but watch as Aramis scrubs at his face and picks up his spoon. Serge’s concern seems enough to inspire the man to at least try to eat. The porridge is actually studded with dried fruit, an expensive treat for winter and one that he knows Aramis is partial to. And Aramis does eat, though, he slows down after a few bites, instead just chasing down the fruit. Still, it’s certainly more than Porthos managed up til now. 

Porthos has long inhaled his own bowl when there is a commotion out in the courtyard, the sound of men shouting and running and then the telltale sound of a heavily laden cart. 

They’re immediately on their feet, though Aramis doesn’t run out as Porthos might have suspected. Aramis seems suddenly insecure and he makes his way hesitantly out to the courtyard. 

Porthos sees the Captain still on horseback as he oversees the carts file into the Garrison; carts full of bodies already in their white shrouds. It’s quite the funeral procession, though, missing the sound of the bells. Porthos imagines that they don’t want this incident to be quite so public. Instead, the carts are followed by a few women and children in mourning dress, the families of some of the Musketeers. Many of the wives live outside Paris and will simply be informed by letter, Porthos knows. 

Following as if sleep-walking, Aramis waits for the end of the line, behind the families and remaining Musketeers and recruits. He’s deliberately keeping himself separate, like he’s been somehow ostracized from the regiment. Aramis is an inconvenient survivor, a reminder of failure that won’t be buried this day and laid to rest. 

The graves are already dug, waiting for them in the small cemetery along with the priest. There’s a lot of talking, crying, commotion. Families greet the priest or cry over the bodies of loved ones, and masses are said. Yet Aramis stays in the back, speaking to no one. Instead, the injured man holds his crucifix tightly and prays fervently under his breath, as if he were trying to do the work of a hundred paupers paid to pray for the intercession of the dead. Aramis is truly alone in the midst of all these people and emotions and it worries Porthos that the man doesn’t seem to have even looked toward the bodies. 

The burial takes a long time. It should take a long time to inter twenty dead men, twenty of the best soldiers in France. But even when it is done, when the crowd is dispersing and the light is fading, Aramis still prays. Athos gives a nod as he walks away, and then Captain Treville is slowly approaching them. The older man appears as hesitant to approach them as any of the men. He stops in front of Aramis and silently places a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. Then he also leaves, with a nod in Porthos’ direction. 

Porthos frowns a bit, unsure what to make of the Captain’s reticence to speak to the lone survivor, an injured man under his command, who has served faithfully for years. Porthos doesn’t really know Treville, or the relationship between the man and Aramis, but it does seem inadequate. But any thoughts about the captain disappear as Aramis seems to wilt suddenly, dropping to his knees and continuing to pray. 

Perhaps it’s just another expression of Aramis’ piety, but Porthos can’t stand to see the man so low. Porthos crouches down and places a gentle hand on the side of Aramis’ face, feeling how cold the skin is. “It’s time to go,” he says gently. 

Aramis stands up with him, but it seems automatic, like Aramis isn’t really aware of what he is doing. They’re walking back before Aramis grabs his arm and actually looks at him. “I don’t want to stay here,” he says urgently. “I want to go to my rooms tonight.”

Porthos looks at him seriously, though his heart is breaking at the idea of separating from this man. Before he can speak, Aramis is continuing, “Come with me. Let’s...let’s go back there, together.”

Porthos thinks that he understands. Aramis wants to go back to their night together, like this horrible time hasn’t existed. And Porthos wants that more than anything, but he doesn’t want Aramis to bury this trauma like they buried those Musketeers. Yet upon entering Aramis’ rooms, Porthos thinks that he understands. It does feel like home here, even after so short a time. It feels lived in and comfortable. It feels like Aramis here, with the scent of oils and scattered books, organized but still chaotic. After the cold outside, the room is a warm respite since Aramis sent word to his landlady of his return. Porthos does not wonder at how the man became so close to his landlady. 

As soon as they’re inside, Aramis is dropping his clothes, appearing as if he is dropping his burdens as well. Porthos hangs his own coat on a random piece of furniture and moves to help him. He is surprised when Aramis continues undressing to his skin, untying his smalls and dropping them to the floor. The man is beautiful but Porthos can too easily see his ribs, his muscles. Porthos had two bowls of stew before leaving the Garrison but Aramis only had more cups of that weed. 

Yet the sight still affects him, igniting his blood. To distract himself, he says, “Under the covers with you.” Then he puts words to actions, pulling the covers back and then tucking the man in. 

Porthos finishes getting ready for bed, stoking the fire, and then finally removing his own clothes. He can feel Aramis’ dark eyes on him, but he doesn’t meet that gaze until he too is sliding under the covers. In his time, he understands the pull for life-affirming sex after battle, though he still worries about Aramis’ history. But he can’t resist this beautiful man any long and so he gives in, sliding close and taking Aramis’ face in his hand. It will be on his terms, though, as Porthos kisses his lover slowly, and thoroughly. 

He can feel Aramis’ rising desire, but he stops wandering hands, pinning the other man to the bed with his bulk as he continues just kissing. Their mouths only separate for sips of breath and Aramis nips Porthos’ full bottom lip, the only thing he’s allowed to reach. Only after Porthos has had his fill, does he pull away so he can see Aramis’ face. 

“You need to sleep,” Porthos growls. 

A small amount of his usual mirth enters Aramis’ eyes as he answers, “Yes, I can think of something to help me sleep.”

Porthos pushes the insolent man to his back and then looks over him, watching as those dark eyes grow hot and hungry. Aramis’ legs part for him as Porthos moves down that lean body. 

“Yeesss,” Aramis hisses. “Go get the oil.”

But Porthos doesn’t get up, instead continuing down, placing a kiss on one dark nipple and the curve of a hipbone. “What are you…” Aramis’ words are cut off as Porthos kisses the head of his cock. 

Aramis seems to convulse as Porthos wraps his lips around the head and begins to suck. Wonders how infrequently Aramis has ever been on the receiving end of this act, Porthos builds the sensations, licking the slit before taking deeper in his mouth. Arching his head back with a loud groan, still Aramis reaches a long-fingered hand down the bed, searching for contact. Their hands cling while Porthos speeds up his ministrations, focusing on the sensitive head so Aramis is close within moments. Porthos can tell by the quivering of stomach muscles and the way that strong thighs are suddenly squeezing him. 

Porthos takes him deeper and swallows his seed as Porthos strains against him. Excited himself, Porthos begins to move over the prone man, Aramis’ thighs sliding around his waist to try to keep him close. 

Aramis already looks sleepy, blinking slowly up at him when he says, “Now, the oil then.”

“Just this tonight,” Porthos grits the words out, already close as his hand flies over his own cock. HIs hips thrust into his tight fist three times before he finishes, managing to catch most of his seed in his hand. A single white stripe paints Aramis’ lightly furred chest. Leaning down, Porthos licks it off his lover’s skin. 

When he moves off the bed, heading to the washbasin, he notices the incredulity on Aramis’ face. He smirks as he washes his hands, but tries to school his expression before returning to the bed. 

“Porthos, I…”

He doesn’t let Aramis finish as he takes the man’s mouth in another deep kiss. When he’s done Aramis no longer seems interested in talking. Pleased, Porthos lays on his back and pulls Aramis into his side. Thankfully, Aramis’s bed is a bit larger so they can both fit and Aramis leans his cheek on Porthos’ shoulder and fits his lean body around the other man. Aramis is asleep before Porthos can blink. 

The next morning is what Porthos wished for those two weeks. They wake slowly, naked skin sliding together, sleepily kissing until they’re forced to get up. Porthos isn’t reminded of current circumstances until Aramis stands up. Porthos can just see the weakness of the man’s body, the need for sustenance, for care. While Aramis is oiling his moustache in the warped mirror, Porthos gently touches the man’s hairline.   
“How is the head today?” he asks. 

“Not enough to prevent me taking up my regular tasks,” Aramis says. He grabs Porthos’ hand to give the rough knuckles a kiss. “So don’t start.”

Porthos gives him the side-eye, but puts on his coat without further comment. Unfortunately, when they enter the Garrison, it seems everyone else has a comment. Porthos watches as they all whisper to each other, much the way these men did when Porthos first arrived. Rumors must be flying, rumors about the attack, rumors about Marsac, about how Aramis survived. Aramis himself seems unaffected, even calling out a greeting to Cornet, one of the few Musketeers left. 

Cornet raises his hand in greeting, but does not approach. No one does. In fact, as they approach the outdoor table, men actually get up to leave. Porthos sneers at them, but he also understands them. They’re just recruits and Aramis is one of the first Musketeers. What can they say to him? What words could give comfort from the mouths of young men barely from their mother’s breast? How could they understand? 

Aramis sweeps his hat from his head to lay on the table as Serge approaches. With serious expressions the two men acknowledge each other. Still, it’s not a bad start to the day. Aramis eats and they watch the commotion around them. Recruits train. Musketeers come and go on their business. Aramis is just finishing when Athos comes up to them. 

He stops at their table. “Treville has given the three of us a task,” he says in that short, authoritative way that he says everything. “If we ride now, we should be back before evening.”

Aramis stands immediately, eager for something to do. Though as they walk to the stable, he laughs and says, “You must have gotten the short straw to be stuck with us today.”

“I volunteered,” Athos says plainly as he takes the reins of his horse from the stableboy. 

“Oh,” Aramis continues as he swings himself up into the saddle. “I had no idea that you dreamed of becoming a nursemaid.”

Athos looks at Aramis with a withering look which only makes Aramis smile wider. It looks like a genuine smile to Porthos and he is glad of the sight. 

“I was told that you are the best sharpshooter in the Musketeers,” Athos states. “I should hardly need to nursemaid you.”

“In the Musketeers?” Porthos joins in the teasing. “I’d say he’s the best in France, and probably Spain.”

Athos lifts a tiny corner of his lips in a smile as he shares a knowing look with Aramis. “I’d very much like to see you prove it.”


End file.
